


All the Chains Holding Me

by Vermin_Disciple



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 5 Things, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Gen, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermin_Disciple/pseuds/Vermin_Disciple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I wish I knew how it would feel to be free // I wish I could break all the chains holding me</i>. Sam Tyler is a man of much restraint. (5 ways Sam couldn't act on his desires.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Chains Holding Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is '5 Things' fic in all but name, on the theme of repression. Alternate titles could be any variation on '5 Times Sam Didn't Act on his Desires,' or '5 Ways in Which Sam is a Repressed Little Angst Bunny,' etc. The lyrics quoted are from "I Wish I Knew How it Would Feel to be Free", as is the title. Many thanks to my beta, [rubberbutton](http://rubberbutton.livejournal.com).

*  
_Well I wish I could be like a bird in the sky_   
_How sweet it would be if I found I could fly_  
*

There had been a favorite bicycle in his childhood, well-oiled in the places where it counted and a bit rusty everywhere else. It had been painted a hideous shade of chartreuse, but that didn't matter because most of the paint was chipping off. Sam would ride it to the top of a particular hill and hurtle down it, no peddling required. It drove his mother mad – she never did appreciate the schoolyard value of seriously impressive bruises. Half-way down he would lose all sense of control, like being the rock flung out of a sling-shot.

Riding in the passenger seat of the Cortina is like that. Loss of control is not something that his adult-self can appreciate. God himself couldn't control Gene's driving, and Sam knows well that any remonstrations will fall on deaf ears. Or, will be met with a sharp turn that throws the remonstrator hard against the car door.

Ignoring stop signs and speed limits. Road rage. Reckless endangerment. Coppers putting themselves above the law. It's abhorrent.

But sometimes, he sits back and closes his eyes. With the window open, his hand clutching a steadying handlebar, and the wind whipping at his shirt sleeve – he's ten years old again and flying.

On the rare occasions when he manages to wrestle the keys from his DCI's (usually quite pissed) fingers, he follows every traffic law on the books, including some that haven't been added yet. It almost amuses him that Gene is as apt to complain about his driving as Sam is about Gene's. Well, almost. And he's almost certain that Gene is convinced that he's scrupulous about it just to annoy him.

On the even rarer occasions when he gets the Cortina all to himself, he allows himself a moment to reflect on the fact that this car is, in fact, pretty damn cool. He wonders what would happen if he just left the city and drove as fast as he could, pushing the car to its limits, until he ran out of petrol, or road, or imagination.

But he doesn't, of course. He doesn't even breach the speed limit.

He won't even open the window to feel the wind blowing hard against him, egging him on.

*  
_I wish I could share all the love that's in my heart_  
_Remove all the bars that keep us apart_  
*

It isn't a date. He knows it isn't a date. She knows it isn't a date. And if neither of them know what it is, or what they want it to be, well, that is to be expected.

It _might_ have been a date. They're at a curry place near the station. It's cheap and rather gaudy for his tastes, not an ounce of authenticity in it. But Annie looks lovely sitting across from him, frowning down at her plate whenever she thinks he won't notice. Whenever she looks at him her smile is sweet, and warm – and brittle, and worried. Her shirt is low-cut, not something she was wearing at work. She must have changed at the station.

He keeps trying not to show undue interest in examining her breasts (though they are rather lovely as well), because she gets enough of ogling from all the other blokes in CID, those uncouth philistines that sometimes pass for detectives. She means more to him than that. Though a small, lizardy part of his mind keeps suggesting that she wouldn't have worn that shirt if she didn't want him to take notice.

They keep talking about work. He can't help it. Neither can she, because she likes having the opportunity to voice her opinions without being ignored, mocked, brushed off or shot down. It seems to bolster their camaraderie, and for that he's grateful. And his job is a part of himself he can share with confidence that he won't destroy their rapport.

But all that just emphasizes the fact that this isn't a date. Which is probably for the best, because she's right, and he needs her friendship to survive this place.

Less than an hour ago, he was sitting at his desk in the empty CID; he had picked up a ringing phone and yelled at a nurse who couldn't hear him and didn't answer any of his pleas. When he looked up, she was standing there, freshly changed and frozen to the spot. He put the phone back in its cradle, and forced a smile. "Ready to go?"

"That phone didn't ring, Sam. There was no one on the line but an operator."

Sam didn't say anything.

"Who thinks you're mental, by the way."

"I'm not," he said, but it was little more than a whisper.

"They're not real, Sam," she said, imploringly. "Whatever you're hearing, it isn't real." The way she says it, he almost wants to believe her. _But what if you're not real_, he thinks, instead.

So this isn't a date. He won't kiss her when she drops him off at his flat, and he certainly won't invite her up for the limited hospitality he can offer.

Because this isn't a date.

*  
_I wish that I could do all the things that I can do_  
_Though I'm way overdue, I'd be starting anew._  
*

Contrary to popular belief, torture is not the most effective means of interrogation. Sam knows this.

It isn't as though their most current corpses are the most horrifying he has ever seen, either. It isn't as though this is the worst villain to cover his tracks so well. It isn't the first time Sam has _known_ beyond any doubt that the suspect is guilty, and not had any solid evidence to back him up.

The suspect has a lump on his head the size of a small potato from where Sam slammed him into a wall. That was during the arrest, though. That was reasonable force. That was completely different to _this_, to what he knows is going to happen next, as soon as Gene walks in and takes control of the interview into his own hands.

"Interview commenced at 3:26 pm, April 15, 1973. Present in the room are DI Sam Tyler and DS Ray Carling."

Beside him, Ray is slouched in his chair, arms crossed.

The suspect refuses to say anything at all. Sam can feel Ray rolling his eyes as he continues to ask questions, trying different tactics. Sam fingers are cramping around the pencil because he's squeezing it so hard as he jabs it at one of the photographs of the victims. "Do you recognize this woman," he asks, surprised at the calm in his voice.

The man continues to say nothing, but the corners of his lips twitch, like he's on the verge of smiling.

Suddenly, Sam is out of his chair and the murdering bastard's hair is clenched in his fist as he slams the thick skull into the tabletop, pressing the man's nose into the photographs. "Think this is funny, do you? We know you killed them, and you are not going to get away with it."

Ray's sitting up straight now, eyes wide.

That's when Sam's brain catches up with him, and he releases the suspect. The man looks shaken. Sam doesn't sit back down.

"Boss?"

The door bangs open and Gene is standing there with a coldness in his eyes and a vulgar quip on his tongue. Sam heads over before he can get more than a few steps toward them.

"There's a file we need," he lies. "In the Collator's office."

Their eyes meet. An unspoken understanding passes between them, or so Sam believes. Then he's gone, out the door and down the hall and into the Collator's, because it's as good a place to go as any.

His hand is shaking. It isn't what he did, because that wasn't much, even by his standards. And Gene, well, he's watched Gene do worse to fellow officers over tea and biscuits.

He won't bear witness to whatever's happening in Lost and Found. He can't. Ray will think it's because he's weak, and disgusted, and that he'll kick up a fuss as soon as their done, yowling about prisoners' human rights and threatening to sic the superiors on them. But he thinks that Gene will understand the truth, which is far worse: he's given them his tacit approval. And Gene will think he understands why Sam can't be there; if he was, he'd have to try and stop it.

But that's wrong as well. Ray is right to think him weak.

Because this has nothing to do with stopping them, and everything to do with stopping _himself_.

*  
_I wish I could give all I'm longing to give_  
_I wish I could live like I'm longing to live_  
*

They're in Lost and Found, scene of more showdowns than the saloon in an old Western. It's the same damn argument they always have. The DCI would suggest a strategy, and his DI would criticize that strategy, on the grounds of ethics, legalities, or logic, and that would in turn lead to much yelling and gnashing of teeth.

This is the part where Gene gives him a shove that is partly threat and mostly posturing. This is the part where Sam gives up on diplomacy and slams Gene up against a wall. Then Gene will make a snide comment which implies that Sam is an insect he could swat any time he likes, which they both know is bollocks. Then Sam will retaliate with sarcasm and eventually, there will be a truce. Gene will give in to whatever Sam is demanding and Sam will end up bending one of his increasingly put-upon principles and in the end, something that resembles justice will be found.

Except that Gene _hasn't_ said anything yet.

Sam isn't sure what happened, because he knows the choreography well enough by now. He thought he'd worked out exactly how far he could push, and exactly where the _real_ danger zones are.

Sam can feel the strain of an invisible thread, and any moment now it is going to snap.

Gene is breathing too heavily for a run-of-the-mill scuffle like this. Sam's breathing deeply as well, which is never a good idea in Lost and Found, a room that has gone so far past being a health code violation it could now be set aside as protected habitat for several new life-forms.

Neither of them move. Even through the fabric under his palms, Gene's skin is hot. If he moves his hands a few inches, he would be able to feel Gene's heart, thudding away as rapidly as Sam's own. Their faces are far too close; Sam realizes with a jolt that he's been leaning, slowly bringing them closer and closer. He forces himself to stop. Gene licks his lip; a shiver runs down Sam's spine.

Gene could easily have thrown him off by now, if he'd had any intention of doing so.

There's a whole slew of smells that Sam associates with Gene, and it's not what you'd call a pleasant combination. Fags and liquor, whatever heart-attack inducing fry-up he had for lunch, Brut or Old Spice, depending on whether he shaved in his office or at home – but in this stillness, in this _closeness_, underneath all of it Gene smells like _Gene_. It's that human smell that Sam can't imagine his mind capable of fabricating. There's a sheen of sweat on Gene's neck, and Sam wonders if he tastes as real and human as he smells.

After a moment, or a minute, or a lifetime, it's Gene who breaks the silence. "Piss or get off the pot, Tyler," he says, voice low. "I haven't got all day."

Sam doesn't know what it is: invitation, dare or threat. But he knows how he must respond.

He lets go, and takes a step back. Gene takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"That's what I thought," he says.

He gives Sam a final, impenetrable look, and then strides out of the room, straightening his lapels. Sam leans against the wall and stares up at the ceiling, blood pounding in his ears.

He ought to follow. There's work to be getting on with. But his feet seem to be bolted to the floor.

He just needs a moment to get his head together. He just wants to go into the loo and… _No_.

He'll close his eyes and wait for the flush to die down. The drum of his pulse is perfectly synchronized with the distant sounds of 21st century medical technology, faint as stars above a storm cloud. He doesn't know what to look to for guidance anymore.

*  
_I wish I knew how it would feel to be free_  
_I wish I could break all the chains holding me_  
*

The barrel of a sawed-off shotgun is pointed at his head. Even as he tries to talk the jumpy would-be bank-robber down, there is a voice in his head telling him to say the wrong thing. Provoke him. Quickly, before Gene gets all heroic. Messy, but quick. You won't feel a thing, and then you'll be home.

Beneath the pounding of blood in his ears he can hear the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. _Beep. Beep. Beep. Sam._

But the kid – and he is a kid, barely more than a teenager – is listening to him. The kid is far more frightened than he is. And Sam wants to help him, Sam doesn't want him to be a killer, if only because it will prove Gene wrong and him right, one-nil. So Sam says all the right things, like a man trained in the latest hostage negotiation tactics and psychological profiling and rehabilitation assessments, and the bank-robber is putting his gun down, just as Gene arrives with the cavalry.

Sam has not died here today. And he is not home, either.

He still can't decide whether the two are synonymous.

Every time he sees a speeding car, the desire to hurl himself in front of it is there – as surely as the desire to pull the idiot over and issue a citation. A blue Volkswagen down an alley, and a doctor in his ears telling him that he's not responding well to the latest tests – _It isn't completely hopeless, not yet, but let's be realistic_... A red Ford Grenada skidding round a curve, and his mother's voice begging, imploring, pleading – _Sam, please, come back to us_…

He goes up to the roof, sometimes, when he can get away without anybody noticing. 'Anybody' really means Annie, who might well call in the men in the white coats _this_ time, to protect him from himself. But once he's standing there, he can't hear anything but the sounds of the city below him. No machines. No voices. No indication that there is anything but here and now.

And he can't do it. He can't muster the courage to take that final step, not if there's a _chance_ that this is real. He walks back down the stairs, knowing that he's a dithering coward. But he always notices the fire-bucket, and the spilled sand lying on the ground beside it.

_I am alive_, he thinks. It's one of the few things that he both wants and has.

_I am alive_. It isn't enough. But it's the only thing he knows for certain.

*

_I wish you could know what it means to be me_  
_Then you'd see and agree_  
_That every man should be free._


End file.
